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PART II.

The beauteous maid, who bids the world adieu,
Oft of that world will snatch a fond review;

Oft at the shrine neglect her beads, to trace
Delle cose custode, e dispensiera.- Tasso. Some social scene, some dear familiar face :

And ere, with iron tongue, the vesper bell
ANALYSIS

Bursts through the cypress-walk, the convent cell

Oft will her warm and wayward heart revive, THE Memory has hitherto acted only in subservience to the senses, and so far man is not eminently distin- / To love and joy still tremblingly alive ; guished from other animals; but, with respect to man, The whisper'd vow, the chaste caress prolong, she has a higher province; and is often busily employed, Weave the light dance and swell the choral song when excited by no external cause whatever. She pre- With rapt ear drink th' enchanting serenade, serves, for his use, the treasures of art and science, his

And, as it melts along the moonlight glade, tory and philosophy. She colours all the prospects of life: for " we can only anticipate the future, by conclud. To each soft note return as soft a sigb, ing what is possible from what is past." On her agency And bless the youth that bids her slumbers fly. depends every effusion of the fancy, who with the boldest but not till time has calm’d the ruffled breast, effort can only compound or transpose, augment or dimi. | Are these fond dreams of happiness confest. nish, the materials which she has collected.

Not till the rushing winds forget to rave, When the first emotions of despair have subsided, and

Is heaven's sweet smile reflected on the wave. sorrow has softened into melancholy, she amuses with a retrospect of innocent pleasures, and inspires that noble From Guinea's coast pursue the lessening sail, confidence which results from the consciousness of hav. And catch the sounds that sadden every gale. ing acted well. When sleep has suspended the organs Tell, if thou canst, the sum of sorrows there ; of sense from their office, she not only supplies the mind | Mark the fix'd gaze, the wild and frenzied glare, with images, but assists in their combination. And even

| The racks of thought, and freezings of despair ! in madness itself, when the soul is resigned over to the tyranny of a distempered imagination, she revives past

But pause not then-beyond the western wave, perceptions, and awakens that train or thought which was Go, view the captive barter'd as a slave! formerly most familiar.

Crush'd till his high, heroic spirit bleeds, Nor are we pleased only with a review of the brighter

And from his nerveless frame indignantly recedes. passages of life. Events, the most distressing in their immediate consequences, are often cherished in rernem

Yet here, e'en here, with pleasures long rebrance with a degree of enthusiasm.

sign'd, But the world and its occupations give a mechanical | Lo! Memory bursts the twilight of the mind. impulse to the passions, which is not very favourable to Her dear delusions soothe his sinking soul, the indulgence of this feeling. It is in a calm and well | When the rude scourge assumes its base control; regulated mind that the memory is most perfect: and Land o'er futurity's blank page diffuse solitude is her best sphere of action. With this sentiment is introduced a tale illustrative of her influence in soli

| The full reflection of her vivid hues. tude, gickness, and sorrow. And the subject having now I'Tis but to die, and then, to weep no more, been considered, so far as it relates to man and the Then will he wake on Congo's distant shore ; animal world, the poem concludes with a conjecture

Beneath his plantain's ancient shade, renew that superior beings are blest with a nobler exercise

The simple transports that with freedom flew; of this faculty.

Catch the cool breeze that musky evening blows,

And quaff the palm's rich nectar as it glows;
SWEET Memory, wafted by thy gentle gale, The oral tale of elder time rehearse,
Oft up the stream of time I turn my sail,

And chant the rude, traditionary verse
To view the fairy haunts of long-lost hours, With those, the loved companions of his youth,
Blest with far greener shades, far fresher flowers. When life was luxury, and friendship truth.
Ages and climes remote to thee impart

Ah! why should virtue fear the frowns of fate? What charms in genius, and refines in art;

Hers what no wealth can buy, no power create ! Thee, in whose hand the keys of science dwell, A little world of clear and cloudless day, The pensive portress of her holy cell;

Nor wreck'd by storms, nor moulder'd by decay; Whose constant vigils chase the chilling damp A world, with Memory's ceaseless sunshine blest, Oblivion steals upon her vestal lamp.

The home of happiness, an honest breast. The friends of reason, and the guides of youth, But most we mark the wonders of her reign, Whose language breathed the eloquence of truth; When sleep has lock'd the senses in her chain. Whose life, beyond preceptive wisdom, taught When sober judgment has his throne resign'd The great in conduct, and the pure in thought ; She smiles away the chaos of the mind; These still exist, by thee to fame consign'd, And, as warm fancy's bright elysium glows, Still speak and act, the models of mankind. From her each image springs, each colour flows.

From thee sweet hope her airy coloring draws; She is the sacred guest! th' immortal friend! And fancy's flights are subject to thy laws. Oft seen o'er sleeping innocence to bend, From thee that bosom spring of rapture flows, In that dead hour of night to silence given, Which only virtue, tranquil virtue, knows. Whispering seraphic visions of her heaven.

When joy's bright sun has shed his evening ray, When the blithe son of Savoy, journeying round And hope's delusive meteors cease to play ; With humble wares and pipe of merry sound, When clouds on clouds the smiling prospects close, From his green vale and shelter'a cabin nies, Still through the gloom thy star serenely glows: And scales the Alps to visit foreign skies ; Like yon fair orb, she gilds the brow of night Though far below the forked lightnings play, With the mild magic of reflected light.

And at his feet the thunder dies away,

Oft, in the saddle rudely rock'd to sleep,

Go, with old Thames, view Chelsea's glorious While his mule browses on the dizzy steep,

pile; With Memory's aid, he sits at home, and sees And ask the shatter'd hero, whence his smile ? His children sport beneath their native trees, Go, view the splendid domes of Greenwich-go, And bends to hear their cherub voices call, And own what raptures from reflection flow. O'er the loud fury of the torrent's fall.

Hail, noblest structures imaged in the wave! But can her smile with gloomy madness dwell? A nation's grateful tribute to the brave ! Say, can she chase the horrors of his cell? | Hail, blest retreats from war and shipwreck, hail! Each fiery flight on frenzy's wing restrain, That oft arrest the wondering stranger's sail. And mould the coinage of the fever'd brain ? Long have ye heard the narratives of age, Pass but that grate, which scarce a gleam sup The battle's havoc, and the tempest's rage ; plies,

Long have ye known reflection's genial ray There in the dust the wreck of genius lies ! Gild the calm close of valour's various day. He, whose arresting hand divinely wrought

Time's sombrous touches soon correct the piece, Each bold conception in the sphere of thought ; Mellow each tint, and bid each discord cease: And round, in colours of the rainbow, threw A softer tone of light pervades the whole, Forms ever fair, creations ever new!

And steals a pensive languor o'er the soul. But, as he fondly snatch'd the wreath of fame, Hast thou through Eden's wild-wood vales purThe spectre poverty unnerved his frame.

sued
Cold was her grasp, a withering scowl she wore Each mountain scene, majestically rude ;
And hope's soft energies were felt no more. To note the sweet simplicity of life,
Yet still how sweet the soothings of his art ! Far from the din of folly's idle strife;
From the rude wall what bright ideas start! Nor there a while, with lifted eye, revered
E'en now he claims the amaranthine wreath, That modest stone which pious Pembroke rear'd ;
With scenes that glow, with images that breathe! Which still records, beyond the pencil's power,
And whence these scenes, these images, declare : The silent sorrows of a parting hour ;
Whence but from her who triumphs o'er despair ? Still to the musing pilgrim points the place,

Awake, arise! with grateful fervour fraught, Her sainted spirit most delights to trace ?
Go, spring the mine of elevating thought.

Thus, with the manly glow of honest pride,
He, who, through nature's various walk, surveys O’er his dead son the gallant Ormond sigh'd.
The good and fair her faultless line portrays; Thus, through the gloom of Shenstone's fairy grove,
Whose mind, profaned by no unhallow'd guest, Maria's urn still breathes the voice of love.
Culls from the crowd the purest and the best ; As the stern grandeur of a Gothic tower
May range, at will, bright fancy's golden clime, Awes us less deeply in its morning hour,
Or, musing, mount where science sits sublime, Than when the shades of time serenely fall
Or wake the spirit of departed time.

On every broken arch and ivied wall;
Who acts thus wisely, mark the moral muse, The tender images we love to trace,
A blooming Eden in his life reviews !

Steal from each year a melancholy grace!
So rich the culture, though so small the space, And as the sparks of social love expand,
Its scanty limits he forgets to trace.

As the heart opens in a foreign land;
But the fond fool, when evening shades the sky, And, with a brother's warmth, a brother's smile,
Turns but to start, and gazes but to sigh!

The stranger greets each native of his isle ;
The weary waste, that lengthen'd as he ran, So scenes of life, when present and confest,
Fades to a blank, and dwindles to a span !

Stamp but their bolder features on the breast;
Ah! who can tell the triumphs of the mind, Yet not an image, when remotely view'd,
By truth illumined, and by taste refined ?

However trivial, and however rude,
When age has quench'd the eye, and closed the But wins the heart, and wakes the social sigh,
ear,

With every claim of close affinity! Still nerved for action in her native sphere,

But these pure joys the world can never know ; Oft will she rise-with searching glance pursue In gentler climes their silver currents flow. Some long-loved image vanish'd from her view; Oft at the silent, shadowy close of day, Dart through the deep recesses of the past, When the hush'd grove has sung his parting lay ; O'er dusky forms in chains of slumber cast; When pensive twilight, in her dusky car, With giant grasp fling back the folds of night, Comes slowly on to meet the evening star; And snatch the faithless fugitive to light.

| Above, below, aërial murmurs swell, 80 through the grove th' impatient mother flies, From hanging wood, brown heath, and bushy dell. Each sunless glade, each secret pathway tries ; A thousand nameless rills, that shun the light, Till the thin leaves the truant boy disclose, Stealing soft music on the ear of night. Long on the woodmoss stretch'd in sweet repose. So oft the finer movements of the soul, Nor yet to pleasing objects are confined

That shun the sphere of pleasure's gay control, The silent feasts of the reflecting mind;

In the still shades of calm seclusion rise, Danger and death a dread delight inspire,

And breathe their sweet, seraphic harmonies ! And the bald veteran glows with wonted fire, Once, and domestic annals tell the time When richly bronzed by many a summer sun, (Preserved in Cumbria's rude, romantic clime) He counts his scars, and tells what deeds were When nature smiled, and o'er the landscepe threw done.

| Her richest fragrance, and her brightest hue,

A blithe and blooming forester explored

Where the bat circled, and the rooks reposed, Chose loftier scenes Salvator's soul adored ; (Their wars suspended, and their councils closed,) The rocky pass half-hung with shaggy wood, An antique mansion burst in awful state, And the cleft oak flung boldly o'er the flood; A rich viné clustering round the Gothic gate. Nor shunn'd the track, unknown to human tread, Nor paused he there. The master of the scene That downward to the night of caverns led; Saw his light step imprint the dewy green; Some ancient cataract's deserted bed.

And, slow advancing, haild him as his guest, High on exulting wind the heath-cock rose Won by the honest warmth his looks express'd. And blew his shrill blast o'er perennial snows; He wore the rustic manners of a 'squire; Ere the rapt youth, recoiling from the roar, Age had not quench'd one spark of manly fire; Gazed on the tumbling tide of dread Lodoar ; But giant gout had bound him in her chain, And through the rifted cliffs, that scaled the sky, And his heart panted for the chase in vain. Derwent's clear mirror charm'd his dazzled eye. Yet here remembrance, sweetly soothing power! Each osier isle, inverted on the wave,

Wing'd with delight confinement's lingering hour. Through morn's gray mist its melting colours gave; The fox's brush still emulous to wear, And o'er the cygnet's haunt, the mantling grove He scour'd the country in his elbow chair ; Its emerald arch with wild luxuriance wove. . And, with view-halloo, roused the dreaming hound,

Light as the breeze that brush'd the orient dew, That rung, by starts, his deep-toned music round. From rock to rock the young adventurer flew; Long by the paddock's humble pale confined, And day's last sunshine slept along the shore, His aged hunters coursed the viewless wind: When lo, a path the smile of welcome wore. And each, with glowing energy portray'd, Imbowering shrubs with verdure veild the sky, The far-famed triumphs of the field display'd; And on the musk-rose shed a deeper dye ;

Usurp'd the canvass of the crowded hall, Save when a bright and momentary gleam

And chased a line of heroes from the wall. Glanced from the white foam of some shelter. There slept the horn each jocund echo knew, stream.

And many a smile and many a story drew! O'er the still lake the bell of evening tollid, High o'er the hearth his forest trophies hung, And on the moor the shepherd penn'd his fold ; And their fantastic branches wildly flung. And on the green hill's side the meteor play'd, How would he dwell on the vast antlers there! When, hark ! a voice sung sweetly through the These dash'd the wave, those fann'd the mountain shade:

air. It ceased-yet still in Florio's fancy sung,

All, as they frown'd, unwritten records bore
Still on each note his captive spirit hung; Of gallant feats and festivals of yore.
Till o'er the mead a cool, sequester'd grot

But why the tale prolong?-His only child, From its rich roof a sparry lustre shot.

His darling Julia, on the stranger smiled. A crystal water cross'd the pebbled floor,

Her little arts a fretful sire to please,
And on the front these simple lines it bore : Her gentle gayety, and native ease

Had won his soul; and rapturous fancy shed
Hence away, nor dare intrude!

Her golden lights, and tints of rosy red.
In this secret, shadowy cell

But ah! few days had pass'd, ere the bright vision
Musing Memory loves to dwell,

fled! With her sister Solitude.

When evening tinged the lake's ethereal blue,
Far from the busy world she fies,

And her deep shades irregularly threw;
To taste that peace the world denies.

Their shifting sail dropt gently from the cove,
Entranced she sits; from youth to age,

Down by Saint Herbert's consecrated grove;
Reviewing life's eventful page ;
And noting, ere they fade away,

Whence erst the chanted hymn, the taper'd rite

Amused the fisher's solitary night:
The little lines of yesterday.

And still the mitred window, richly wreathed, Florio had gain'd a rude and rocky seat,

A sacred calm through the brown foliage breathed. When lo, the genius of this still retreat!

The wild deer, starting through the silent glade, Fair was her form—but who can hope to trace With fearful gaze their various course survey'd. The pensive softness of her angel face?

High hung in air the hoary goat reclined, Can Virgil's verse, can Raphael's touch, impart His streaming beard the sport of every wind; Those finer features of the feeling heart,

And, while the coot her jet wing loved to lave, Those tenderer tints that shun the careless eye, Rock'd on the bosom of the sleepless wave; And in the world's contagious climate die ?

The eagle rush'd from Skiddaw's purple crest, She left the cave, nor mark'd the stranger there; A cloud still brooding o'er her giant nest. Her pastoral beauty and her artless air

| And now the moon had dimm'd with dewy Had breathed a soft enchantment o'er his soul!

ray In every nerve he felt her blest control!

The few fine flushes of departing day.
What pure and white-wing'd agents of the sky, O'er the wide water's deep serene she hung,
Who rule the springs of sacred sympathy,

And her broad lights on every mountain flung: Inform congenial spirits when they meet?

When lo! a sudden blast the vessel blew,
Sweet is their office, as their natures sweet! And to the surge consign'd the little crew.

Florio, with fearful joy, pursued the maid, All, all escaped-but ere the lover bore
Till through a vista's moonlight-checker'd shade, His faint and faded Julia to the shore,

dar sense had fled -Exhausted by the storm, If thy blest nature now unites above A fatal trance hung o'er her pallid form ;

An angel's pity with a brother's love, Her closing eye a trembling lustre fired;

Still o'er my life preserve thy mild control, 'Twas life's last spark-it flutter'd and expired! | Correct my views, and elevate my soul;

The father strew'd his white hairs in the wind, | Grant me thy peace and purity of mind, Callid on his child-nor linger'd long behind : Devout, yet cheerful, active, yet resign'd; And Florio lived to see the willow wave,

Grant me, like thee, whose heart knew no disguise, With many an evening whisper, o'er their grave. Whose blameless wishes never aim'd to rise, Yes, Florio lived—and, still of each possessid, To meet the changes time and chance present, The father cherish'd and the maid caress'd! With modest dignity and calm content. For ever would the fond enthusiast rove

When thy last breath, ere nature sunk to rest, With Julia's spirit through the shadowy grove ; Thy meek submission to thy God express'd ; Gaze with delight on every scene she plannd, When thy last look, ere thought and feeling fled, Kiss every floweret planted by her hand.

A mingled gleam of hope and triumph shed; Ah! still he traced her steps along the glade, What to thy soul its glad assurance gave, When hazy hues and glimmering lights betray'd Its hope in death, its triumph o’er the grave ? Half viewless forms; still listen’d as the breeze The sweet remembrance of unblemish'd youth, Heaved its deep sobs among the aged trees; The still inspiring voice of innocence and truth! And at each pause her melting accents caught, Hail, Memory, hail! in thy exhaustless mine In sweet delirium of romantic thought!

From age to age unnumber'd treasures shine! Dear was the grot that shunn'd the blaze of day; Thought and her shadowy brood thy call obey, She gave its spars to shoot a trembling ray. And place and time are subject to thy sway! The spring, that bubbled from its inmost cell, Thy pleasures most we feel when most alone; Murmur'd of Julia's virtues as it fell;

The only pleasures we can call our own.
And o'er the dripping moss, the fretted stone, Lighter than air, hope's summer visions die,
In Florio's ear breathed language not its own, If but a fleeting cloud obscure the sky;
Her charm around th' enchantress Memory threw, | If but a beam of sober reason play,
A charm that soothes the mind, and sweetens too! Lo, fancy's fairy frost-work melts away!
But is her magic only felt below?

But can the wiles of art, the grasp of power,
Say, through what brighter realms she bids it now: Snatch the rich relics of a well spent hour?
To what pure beings, in a nobler sphere,

These, when the trembling spirit wings her flight She yields delight but faintly imaged here: Pour round her path a stream of living light; All that till now their rapt researches knew; And gild those pure and perfect realms of rest, Not call'd in slow succession to review,

Where virtue triumphs, and her sons are blest! Bat, as a landscape meets the eye of day, At once presented to their glad survey !

Each scene of bliss reveal’d, since chaos fled,
And dawning light its dazzling glories spread;

ITALY
Each chain of wonders that sublimely glow'd,
Since first creation's choral anthem flow'd;
Each ready flight, at mercy's call divine,

PART L
To distant worlds that undiscover'd shine;
Full on her tablet Alings its living rays,
And all, combined, with blest effulgence blaze.

THE LAKE OF GENEVA
There thy bright train, immortal friendship, soar; Day glimmer'd in the east, and the white moon
No more to part, to mingle tears no more!

Hung like a vapour in the cloudless sky, And, as the softening hand of time endears

Yet visible, when on my way I went, The joys and sorrows of our infant years,

Glad to be gone-a pilgrim from the north, So there the soul, released from human strife, Now more and more attracted as I drew Smiles at the little cares and ills of life;

Nearer and nearer. Ere the artisan, Its lights and shades, its sunshine and its showers; 1 Drowsy, half-clad, had from his window leant, As at a dream that charm'd her vacant hours ! With folded arms and listless look, to snuff Oft may the spirits of the dead descend

The morning air, or the caged sky-lark sung, To watch the silent slumbers of a friend;

From his green sod up springing—but in vain, To hover round his evening walk unseen,

His tuneful bill o'erflowing with a song And hold sweet converse on the dusky green ; Old in the days of Homer, and his wings Thail the spot where first their friendship grew, With transport quivering, on my way I went, And heaven and nature open'd to their view!

Thy gates, Geneva, swinging heavily, Ost, when he trims his cheerful hearth, and sees

Thy gates so slow to open, swift to shut; A smiling circle emulous to please ;

As on that Sabbath eve when he arrived, * There may these gentle guests delight to dwell, Whose name is now thy glory, now by thee And bless the scene they loved in life so well!

Inscribed to consecrate (such virtue dwells O thou! with whom my heart was wont to share In those small syllables) the narrow street, From reason's dawn each pleasure and each care ; | His birth-place—when, but one short step too late, With whom, alas ! I fondly hoped to know The humble walks of happiness below;

* Rousseau.

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He sate him down and wept-wept till the morning; Across the ocean—to a rock so small
Then rose to goma wanderer through the world. Amid the countless multitude of waves,

'Tis not a tale that every hour brings with it. That ships have gone and sought it, and return'd, Yet at a city gate, from time to time,

Saying it was not ! Much might be learnt; and most of all at thine,

Still along the shore, London—thy hive the busiest, greatest, still Among the trees, I went for many a mile, Gathering, enlarging still. Let us stand by, Where damsels sit and weave their fishing-nets, And note who passes. Here comes one, a youth, Singing some national song by the way-side. Glowing with pride, the pride of conscious power, But now 'twas dusk, and journeying by the Rhone, A Chatterton-in thought admired, caress'd, That there came down, a torrent from the Alps, And crown'd like Petrarch in the capitol;

I enter'd where a key unlocks a kingdom,* Ere long to die-to fall by his own hand,

The mountains closing, and the road, the river, And fester with the vilest. Here come two, Filling the narrow pass. There, till a ray Less feverish, less exalted-soon to part,

Glanced through my lattice, and the household stir A Garrick and a Johnson ; wealth and fame Warn'd me to rise, to rise and to depart, Awaiting one-e'en at the gate, neglect

A stir unusual and accompanied And want the other. But what multitudes, With many a tuning of rude instruments, Urged by the love of change, and, like myself, And many a laugh that argued coming pleasure, Adventurous, careless of to-morrow's fare, Mine host's fair daughter for the nuptial rite, Press on-though but a rill entering the sea, And nuptial feast attiring-there I slept, Entering and lost! Our task would never end. And in my dreams wander'd once more, well pleased

Day glimmer'd and I went, a gentle breeze But now a charm was on the rocks, and woods, Ruffling the Leman lake. Wave after wave, And waters; for, methought, I was with those If such they might be call'd, dash'd as in sport, I had at morn, at even, wish'd for there. Not anger, with the pebbles on the beach, Making wild music, and far westward caught

II. The sunbeam-where, alone and as entranced,

THE GREAT ST. BERNARD. Counting the hours, the fisher in his skiff

Night was again descending, when my mule, Lay with his circular and dotted line,

That all day long had climb'd among the clouds, Fishing in silence. When the heart is light Higher and higher still, as by a stair With hope, all pleases, nothing comes amiss; Let down from heaven itself, transporting me, And soon a passage boat swept gayly by,

Stopp'd, to the joy of both, at that low door Laden with peasant girls, and fruits and flowers, So near the summit of the great St. Bernard; And many a chanticleer and partlet caged

That door which ever on its hinges moved For Vevay's market-place-a motley group

To them that knock'd, and nightly sends abroad Seen through the silvery haze. But soon 'twas gone. Ministering spirits. Lying on the watch, The shifting sail flapp'd idly for an instant, Two dogs of grave demeanour welcomed me, Then bore them off.

All meekness, gentleness, though large of limb; I am not one of those

And a lay brother of the hospital, So dead to all things in this visible world,

Who, as we toil'd below, had heard by fits So wondrously profound--as to move on

The distant echoes gaining on his ear, In the sweet light of heaven, like him of old, Came and held fast any stirrup in his hand, (His name is justly in the calendar,)

While I alighted.
Who through the day pursued this pleasant path

Long could I have stood,
That winds beside the mirror of all beauty, With a religious awe contemplating
And, when at eve his fellow pilgrims sate,

That house, the highest in the ancient world, Discoursing of the lake, ask'd where it was. And placed there for the noblest purposes. They marvell’d, as they might; and so must all,

'Twas a rude pile of simplest masonry, Seeing what now I saw; for now 'twas day,

With narrow windows and vast buttresses, And the bright sun was in the firmament,

Built to endure the shocks of time and chance ; A thousand shadows of a thousand hues

Yet showing many a rent, as well it might,
Checkering the clear expanse. A while his orb Warr'd on for ever by the elements,
Hung o'er thy trackless fields of snow, Mont Blanc, And in an evil day, nor long ago,
Thy seas of ice and ice-built promontories,

By violent men—when on the mountain top
That change their shapes for ever as in sport;

| The French and Austrian banners met in conflict. Then travellid onward, and went down behind On the same rock beside it stood the church, The pine-clad heights of Jura, lighting up Reft of its cross, not of its sanctity; The woodman's casement, and perchance his axe The vesper bell, for 'twas the vesper hour, Borne homeward through the forest in his hand; Duly proclaiming through the wilderness, And, in some deep and melancholy glen,

“ All ye who hear, whatever be your work, That dungeon fortress never to be named,

Stop for an instant-move your lips in prayer !" Where, like a lion taken in the toils,

And, just beneath it, in that dreary dale,
Toussaint breathed out his brave and generous spirit. If dale it might be call'd, so near to heaven,
Ah, little did he think, who sent him there,

A little lake, where never fish leap'd up,
That he himself, then greatest among men,
Should in like manner be so soon convey'd

* St. Maurice.

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